


baby, don't play

by 127AM (hotmess_ex_press)



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Pranks and Practical Jokes, Roommates, but make it supernatural, ghost au, me?? writing fluff??? i feel faint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-27
Updated: 2020-10-27
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:15:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27221818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hotmess_ex_press/pseuds/127AM
Summary: When Mark steps out of the shower with a towel held loose around his waist one fine Monday, Donghyuck scrawls his appreciation in the steam-damp mirror.NICE ASS.Instead of backing away and glancing around furtively, blanched and bug-eyed, Mark does the opposite. A heady flush warms his skin from ear to shoulder, and the beginnings of a surprised laugh escape, sweet and bright, before he slaps his palm over his mouth."Thank you," he whispers, so soft Donghyuck barely hears it. His eyes are sparkling.Ignoring the flutter in his chest where a heart used to be, Donghyuck scowls. He's obviously failing in his ghostly duties. The lingering smile on Mark's face is an insult to the integrity of apartment-dwelling spirits everywhere. What is he doing wrong?
Relationships: Lee Donghyuck | Haechan/Mark Lee
Comments: 27
Kudos: 264





	baby, don't play

**Author's Note:**

> hyuck is a ghost, warmth (both physical and emotional!) makes him more corporeal while fear makes him even less tangible  
> this is SILLY hope u have fun!

"Moving day," Donghyuck grumbles when a crash at the door startles him so much he tumbles off of the bookshelf he was napping on. There's yelling and laughter, and a panicked shriek of _Jisung!_ all coming from the stairwell and trailing menacingly closer to Donghyuck's apartment. He sighs, picking himself up from the plume of air he fell on and straightening the sweater sleeves that haven't budged for nearly thirty years. Moving day, and it'll be a loud one.

There's another bang at the door, and this time the shouted name ( _Chenle!_ ) is less frantic and more long-suffering. Donghyuck giggles at the pointed shift in tone and levitates up to the ceiling fan, draping himself over a blade and sneezing out of habit at the dust swarming his face. He clicks his tongue. The new tenant won't be happy to deal with _that_.

Unit 212: Donghyuck's haunt of twenty-eight years and counting. Forty-seven, if he counts the human birthdays spent in the cramped kitchen, but Donghyuck is prone to blissfully overlook those.

He's proud to have tormented one family of five, two families of three, and no fewer than four couples during his short stint as a pesky lost spirit. As far as resumes go, his isn't bad for a career of only twenty-eight deathdays.

The key scrapes through the lock, and Donghyuck leans forward in anticipation.

First, two skinny vibrant-haired teenagers spill into the small living room. _Jisung and Chenle_ , he figures, though he was expecting toddlers from the way they wailed with laughter after dropping boxes of valuables. Another pair of pretty boys--seriously, Donghyuck is beginning to feel offended by the amount of cheekbones in the room--stride into the apartment, one of them propping the door open with a lazy foot. A final figure staggers forward, obscured by an armful of cardboard boxes.

He lurches into the center of the room and unceremoniously drops his boxes, straightening and running tapered fingers through his hair. Light snags in the onyx strands and the handsome slopes of his weary ( _moving day!_ ) face.

He is gorgeous.

Donghyuck promptly falls out of the ceiling fan, sending it whirling in a whoosh of movement. The boy with the careless gait, closest to the fan, turns his head, and Donghyuck freezes. Once, he was spotted on Moving Day. The poor moving truck driver's grandmother was a medium, and she burst into hysterics at the sight of him, an experience he would never like to repeat. Children were traumatized that day, including Donghyuck.

Fortunately, this one has not a drop of sixth sense in him. Donghyuck resumes his falling, thudding lightly onto the carpet, and gapes at the new tenant.

"Did you see that?" the boy at the door asks, voice cracking.

New tenant frowns. If Donghyuck had a body, he would be violently stroking that jawline--no _way_ that curve isn't just a trick of the light. "Don't scare me, Jeno," he reprimands, but there's a tremor in his words. "We all heard what the landlord said about the last couple who lived here, don't go telling ghost stories."

Ah yes, the last couple. Donghyuck will admit he's not terribly proud of that particular dealing, but what can he say? They were loud and sloppy and fucked like rabbits. With about as much finesse. An insult to the integrity of his apartment.

If Donghyuck resorted to bloody handprints on the mirrors and rattling through the hallways at night, wailing and trying his best to bump along the walls, well, it's not like anyone will believe them.

One of the colorful teens snorts and flounces onto the couch. "I, for one, think that living in a haunted apartment is a huge perk."

Donghyuck nods. The carrot-headed teen is right--he _is_ a perk. As well as the lowered rent and olive green couch that clashes mightily with that orange hair, both lovely side effects of the last tenants scrambling over themselves to get the hell away from Donghyuck's midnight wandering.

"Yeah," the other teen chimes in. "And who knows? I'm sure all those stories were made up to keep a college kid from moving in. You'll be fine, Mark."

Mark-- _Mark_ , Donghyuck sighs--frowns deeper as he runs a hand along the couch arm. Obviously appreciating the benefit of leftover furnishings.

"At least I won't have to pay for a new couch," he says, Donghyuck nodding in approval. He casts a glance towards the sleek mahogany coffee table--very tasteful. Donghyuck was grateful when they left that one behind. "Or any new furniture, for that matter."

"Too bad they couldn't leave their throw pillows as well," the tangerine haired one laments. "I've been wanting to throw out your monstrous cushions for ages."

Mark slaps him soundly but fondly around the head, and they start to unpack.

Normally, Donghyuck finds moving day horrendously boring, thanks to his self-imposed No Haunting on Moving Day rule. Today is much more interesting. Donghyuck thanks the universe for sending him a roommate with such broad shoulders, and cute teeth that flash into a cuter smile, and a face tangibly carved by the gods.

He floats cross-legged behind Mark as he darts through the rooms, admiring the way sweat glistens on the elegant curve of his neck, the loping sway of his walk, how expensive the rings that glint from his knuckles as he tears into cardboard boxes must be, until Mark doubles back to grab his pocket knife and walks directly through Donghyuck.

Mark shivers fiercely, spinning and staring wildly around the empty room. Donghyuck only feels a little guilty at the unrestrained fear flickering in Mark's dark eyes. His roommates have suffered far worse, but he takes care to hover closer to the ceiling, far from walking distance, anyway.

After the last empty pizza box is stacked into Jeno's arms--Donghyuck isn't sure his mortal body could have handled the amount of pure grease any one of the group just consumed--and Chenle and Jisung have finally been swept out of the apartment, Donghyuck's fun can finally begin.

Mark heaves a sigh as he flops onto the carpet, reaching for the half-slice of pizza on Chenle's abandoned plate. He nibbles absentmindedly as he digs the remote out from between the couch cushions, TV flashing to life in a burst of light and laugh track.

Oh no, this will never do. Donghyuck is the only entertainment allowed around here.

He lets Mark enjoy his silly too-colorful sitcom for precisely seven seconds before swooping at the screen. The image dissolves into a hundred jittery technicolor squares as he passes through it, striped through with glitching letters and slashes of white. Mark squeaks, dropping his pizza as he scrambles onto the couch, drawing his knees up to his chest.

Donghyuck cackles, and it rings out like static crackling from the TV.

The screen slurps into blackness, blinking off with a sound like a camera shutter. Mark stares.

"Fuck," he breathes.

Donghyuck is no _sinister_ ghost. With the exception of methods taken on to drive out annoying couples, he doesn't moan and scrape at the plaster on quiet nights. He doesn't shatter windows with shrieks of agony or slop blood across the white tile in the bathroom. He's not a desolate spirit, slowly losing his sanity on a maddening and endless quest for revenge. And he only breaks vases if they're ugly and deserve to be smashed to bits anyway, _fuck_ your great aunt's taste in pottery.

As a matter of fact, Donghyuck doesn't even know why he got stuck with this spectral afterlife, but while he's bound to this infernal plane, he might as well have some fun with it.

Mark is his favorite hauntee, by far.

There is, of course, the fact that he's beautiful. Sometimes he'll waft his non-body over and perch in front of Mark, examining that disgustingly attractive face. For ghostly researching purposes, of course. Studying his victims, searching for flaws and all that.

Mark tends to order too much takeout and play good music too loud. The smell of horrible, _delicious_ cholesterol feasts and the deafening bliss of music that doesn't make Donghyuck want to warp the speakers into curls of plastic, are two features that haven't graced these halls in decades. Donghyuck is so grateful he could kiss Mark. An unfortunate impossibility, so he settles for feeling a little bad about shuffling all of Mark's playlists out of order.

Most importantly, Mark is a baby. He always lowers his guard at the perfect moment, not bothering to turn the lights on as he shuffles into the kitchen to grab water at night, releasing the tension in his shoulders after he turns corners, letting out a sigh of drowsy relief as he flops onto his bed. Donghyuck finds his days and nights ripe with opportunities to scare the shit out of his flatmate: he'll careen through doors, blowing them off their hinges, or send the lights on a flickering fit, or shoot Mark's phone across the room when he's not looking, delighting in Mark's panic as he tears through the apartment looking for his beloved electric box.

Mark's fear is potent but short-lived. Like an espresso shot: it catches Donghyuck in the chest and bounces him through the air, bubbly and saturated. Then Mark will stop screaming, squealing, jerking his hands in front of his face, or all of the above, and stand very still as his heart slowly stops sending waves of terror through the room. Donghyuck will gather back into his normal density, and they'll carry on with their day, Mark glancing over his shoulder and Donghyuck grinning a little broader.

Mark complains to his friends-- _you don't_ understand _, I nearly had a heart attack, stop laughing Chenle! this is serious business_ \--and invests in several nightlights and talismans from shady internet sites, which Donghyuck takes pleasure in flushing down the toilet as soon as he can. But he pays his rent on time, and the boxes disappear from the living room, and his bedroom quickly becomes as tragically messy as if he had lived in it his whole life.

Donghyuck's biggest complaint is Mark's distinct lack of ugly vases.

He never appreciated how much he enjoys smashing them.

"It's a great place!" Taeyong gushes as he traipses into the kitchen, Mark on his heels and Donghyuck skating along the ceiling directly above them. God most certainly has his favorites, he's decided, if families like the Lees are just _allowed_ to walk around looking like that. "Ooh, look at that _mahogany_."

Donghyuck nods in approval. If he was less dead, he and Taeyong would get along famously.

Taeyong leads them to the kitchen, plops his bag and sweatshirt on the counter, and orders Mark to make him tea while he examines the fridge.

"Aside from the horrendous amounts of leftover lo mein," Taeyong casts a sharp glance and Mark pretends to look ashamed, "it seems like you've been doing pretty well here."

"Actually, there's one thing--"

"Wait," Taeyong interrupts, picking through the seldom-used vegetable drawer. "What the hell is your wallet doing in the cabbage?"

Mark had left it on the counter after ordering dinner last night--what was Donghyuck supposed to do? _Leave_ it there? Wallets don't belong in the middle of the kitchen, where anyone could snatch them up. They're much safer with the cabbage; Donghyuck was teaching Mark a valuable lesson.

Mark flushes. "I didn't put it there, that's what I've been trying to tell you! This place is haunted!"

Taeyong shinily laughs it off without even blinking. "Oh, Mark, it's okay to say you put it there for safety in a fit of drunk paranoia. We've all been there."

"I'm for real," Mark throws a teabag at Taeyong. It flops onto the floor halfway between them. "There's a ghost here! It does things like this all the time, it's driving me crazy."

Taeyong laughs again, but this time it's hiccupy and nervous. "Mark, don't be silly."

He's clutching Mark's wallet to his chest, like Mark and his sanity can no longer be trusted with a credit card. Mark groans, fisting his hands through that glorious hair. Donghyuck drifts over the table, tracking their conversation like a tennis match.

"Why is no one taking me seriously?"

"Because ghosts aren't real!"

Donghyuck gasps. It sounds like a whisper of wind creaking through the window. He will _not_ take slander in his own home. He is the eldest in this haunted apartment, and he demands respect.

Mark spots it first, eyes wide as he stares over Taeyong's shoulder. The glossy leather of Taeyong's purse being tugged off of the counter by invisible hands, suspended far too unnaturally to be explained away. At the scratch of a zipper sliding open, Taeyong turns as well, just in time to see his bag sagging in midair before both contents and bag are flung across the kitchen floor.

For a moment, Taeyong and Mark wear matching slack-jawed expressions as they gape at Taeyong's strewn belongings. Then they jump into each other's arms and scream. Apparently, the Lees were not only gifted with impeccable bone structure, but healthy vocal chords perfectly primed for screeching as well.

The kettle Mark put on earlier joins in on the wailing, and Donghyuck winces at the unpleasant harmony, restoring the water to room temperature with a swish of his wrist. He can only handle so much chaos at once, even if he's the one to have instigated it.

"What do I do?" Mark rambles frantically. Taeyong sprawls into a chair, clutching his chest. His eyes are huge. Tea, wallet, and purse all lie on the ground, forgotten.

"I don't know!" Taeyong exclaims. "Exorcism? Sage? Sacrifices?"

Donghyuck cringes. He's seen some weird things-- _children_ have lived in this unit, after all--but he draws the line at blood in the grout.

" _Sacrifices?_ " Mark's voice climbs so high he's close to shrieking again. "I am not carving up some poor lamb in this kitchen!"

"Shit, nothing like that," Taeyong shakes his head vigorously, white hair swinging. "You're already cursed enough...but maybe an offering of some kind? Sugar? Spices? Ever-burning candles?"

 _An offering_ turns out to be a plate of just-baked chocolate cookies laid out on the counter at midnight. Mark slaps a sticky note reading _For ghost, please don't murder me_ , along with a wobbly smile, on the rim of the plate, slams the poor dish down, and bolts out of the room so fast he almost trips in the doorway.

Donghyuck snorts, swirling closer to the plate after Mark's door rattles shut, likely not to be opened until well into morning. The air around the cookies is edged with Mark's bitter fear, but also something sweet and molten. No, not just the chocolate chips, but _affection_ \--like the cheesy bastard was taught to always bake with love.

The warmth of the cookies and care poured into the batter are enough to pool into Donghyuck's fingertips, stiff and almost solid after so many years of freezing invisibility.

Donghyuck uses his temporary viscosity to gleefully squash the cookies to powder, relishing in the warm crumble beneath his hands.

As the cold begins to seep back in, Donghyuck picks up the plate and reaches to put it in the microwave. He manages to pry the door open before his fingers glip through the handle, and he has to levitate the dish the rest of the way, but he's satisfied with his work.

In the morning, Mark dares to enter the kitchen only to find it devoid of cookies, discovering their whereabouts when he attempts to make ramen. His shoulders round with something Donghyuck would label with disappointment if he didn't know any better.

"But everyone likes my cookies," Mark wonders aloud, even though Donghyuck is sure he saw Mark absentmindedly doubling the amount of salt in the recipe.

Mark nearly jumps out of his skin when a notepad and pencil drift in from the coffee table and hover in front of his nose, but he leans forward in mute fascination as Donghyuck inks out a message from over his shoulder, trembly words splashing across the paper. _Nice try. I can't eat._

He's never attempted it, but he's sure the results would be disastrous and half-digested.

Mark's brow creases thoughtfully. "If not food, what do you like?"

The page tears haphazardly from the notepad and flutters away. _Your face_. A winking face flashes onto the fresh sheet.

Unexpectedly, a pink stain rises to Mark's cheeks, spreading to the tips of his ears.

Donghyuck catalogs this reaction for later, then whooshes the plate from Mark's relaxed grip, dumping the cookie remains into his uncooked ramen. Mark lets out a high-pitched sound, jumping back and crashing into the table, then scowls.

 _Especially when you're scared_. An even more malicious winky face. Mark snatches the notepad from the air and glares in the direction he must think Donghyuck is terrorizing him from. He's horribly wrong, but the message is received. Donghyuck giggles, and the hairs on the back of Mark's neck raise.

"Oh, come on, you can't expect us to believe that."

"I'm telling you! He wrote it, right in front of my face!"

"Mark, for all we know, you wrote that with your left hand. Your handwriting is pretty close to an illiterate ghost's as it is."

"...I hate you all."

Something is horribly wrong in the apartment.

Most importantly, Mark has screamed in terror only four times the past few weeks. At first, he would jump and let out little startled exhales instead of his usual banshee howls, then his reactions mellowed into flinching and the occasional shiver. Now, he only glances up and grins a little at Donghyuck's usual shenanigans. Violently swinging doors don't phase him; his belongings thrown around the apartment do nothing but bring a wry, fond little grin to his face. After he recovers them, of course.

With increasing frequency, Donghyuck catches glimpses of his hands, shimmering and white-blue, fingertips pressing together firmly when he tries to slide them through each other.

Has the novelty of having a nonexistent roommate already worn off? It shouldn't have. Donghyuck is too exciting to be taken for granted.

He expands his repertoire, sending ripples in the rug to nip at Mark's feet. Mark only laughs, dances around them like they're an overexcited puppy. He flings books against the floor in the middle of the night, then shoves them back into their spots on the shelf when Mark comes to investigate. Mark stills, peering in from the doorway. Fingers curling around the wooden frame, he lingers pensively a moment, then shakes his head and goes back to bed. He's disgruntled when he has to call Jeno to help him move the couch back after Donghyuck squeezes it into the bathroom, barely fitting it through the door, but he isn't scared.

When Mark steps out of the shower with a towel held loose around his waist one fine Monday, Donghyuck scrawls his appreciation in the steam-damp mirror.

 _NICE ASS_.

Instead of backing away and glancing around furtively, blanched and bug-eyed, Mark does the opposite. A heady flush warms his skin from ear to shoulder, and the beginnings of a surprised laugh escape, sweet and bright, before he slaps his palm over his mouth.

"Thank you," he whispers, so soft Donghyuck barely hears it. His eyes are sparkling.

Ignoring the flutter in his chest where a heart used to be, Donghyuck scowls. What is he doing wrong?

Donghyuck is slowly maneuvering a pile of Mark's lecture notes to the ceiling, where he plans to deposit them on the fan, when Mark, who he thought was dozing on the couch, sits straight up and flings a pointed finger directly towards Donghyuck. The papers go flying as Donghyuck jolts.

"I know you're there!" he calls, and the triumph in his voice is so vivid that Donghyuck turns almost-corporeal and plummets from the ceiling.

Mark's shock at a ghost falling from the air hits just as Donghyuck touches the floor, and lasts long enough for Donghyuck to sink ankle-deep in the carpet before dissipating, replaced by giddy victory once again.

Donghyuck gapes down at his feet.

"You bastard," he exclaims, trying and failing to lift his very solid, very heavy, and very lodged in the carpet feet. "I'm stuck in the floor!"

Mark is staring too, but not at Donghyuck's feet. His gaze doesn't break from Donghyuck's undoubtedly pissed-off face as he clambers over the couch arm and inches closer.

"Whoa," he breathes. Donghyuck can feel his heartbeat, fizzling and quickened with something more earnest, more blushing than fear. Mark gestures helplessly at his own face, then at Donghyuck's floor-cemented body. "You're... you're..."

"Devastatingly hot?" Donghyuck ruffles up a breeze to play through his hair as he tilts his chin cinematically. No matter how disastrous the situation, he always has time for dramatics and vanity. "I know. Why, back in my day..."

He trails off as Mark's fingertips gently skim his jaw, tentatively arching up to glide against his cheekbone. He's close, and yielding, and stunning, and Donghyuck considers how nice this feels. Even nicer than the satisfaction of scaring a scream out of his gorgeous roommate.

Donghyuck's eyes widen at the thought that he'd rather be stuck in the floor being awkwardly caressed by a blushing Mark than in the air and taunting him, but before he can ponder this and what it means for his status as annoying dead roommate, Mark leans in and all thought is cleanly wiped from his mind.

Mark presses his lips to Donghyuck's, soft and careful. His touch on Donghyuck's cheek drifts away, winding through his translucent hair instead. Donghyuck yanks him forward by his stupid sweatshirt strings and kisses back insistently, and if he was anything more than air and light and soul-essence in Mark's arms he's sure he would be dizzy, skin humming with bliss and satisfaction everywhere Mark's fingertips sweetly graze against it.

Mark lets out a little trembling exhale that Donghyuck drinks in eagerly, wanting.

Then gasps, tripping backwards, as his tongue swirls straight through Donghyuck's.

Donghyuck grasps onto that shred of alarm, using it to vault himself out of the floor. He somersaults over Mark's head and floats in a lazy circle, catching Mark's notes in a small tornado and resuming his plans of raising them towards the ceiling fan.

Mark gazes up at him, the glittering emotion caught in his eyes halfway between awe and exasperation. "You're a menace," he says dotingly.

He's smiling like he can't help it. Like a sap. Donghyuck swoops down to kiss him again. A pink-tinged, gently mussed sap. "You like me."

Mark blinks, dazed, then collapses back onto the couch. Still wearing that private, adoring grin as he shakes his head in disbelief.

"I gotta say," he tilts his head back, watching Donghyuck as he sends the papers waltzing like snowflakes around the fan, "catching feelings for a ghost is the strangest thing that's ever happened to me."

(Donghyuck is pressed into the couch cushions, Mark's weight a pleasant pressure against him. Their bodies bleeding together in some places as Mark's skin dips into his. Mark is cradling his jaw, tugging his hair, kissing him greedy and breathlessly, and it's so _warm_ , so deliciously warm that Donghyuck feels human again, flushed and fragile and _loved_.

Suddenly, Mark sinks like a stone through Donghyuck's body, the door kicked open with a shout and Donghyuck _poof_ ing into nothingness as the sharp spike of four people's fear washes through him. Mark crashes down onto the couch with a groan.

A very intense one-sided staring contest goes on between the four boys at the door and Mark, who is rubbing his stomach with a grimace. Apparition being propelled through your internal organs is never fun. Chenle breaks the silence first.

"What the _fuck_?" he throws his arms wide, voice shrill. "Last time we were here you were whining about your ghost problem, now you're making out with it?"

Donghyuck laughs, a disembodied cackle from above the couch. The crew at the door shuffles uncomfortably. Mark shoves his face into the cushions.

"I never should have given you the spare key," he complains, muffled.)

**Author's Note:**

> comments and kudos are love!


End file.
